Chasing Shadows
by InkySpectacles
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, NON-ANGSTY. Not much, at least. Moriarty tried to burn Sherlock's world; now he will know what it's like to burn. BAMF Sherlock and John.
1. Chapter 1

**Chasing Shadows**

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Sherlock was dead, and John couldn't believe it.

Or wouldn't believe it; he wasn't sure which one to pick.

So he limped the streets of London, and watched his hand tremble, and tried not to think about what he would be doing if Sherlock walked beside him. If he did that, he'd have to sit down, and there weren't any benches around.

There was, however, a bridge.

As John looked over the edge, a brief though entered his mind about jumping, but he dismissed it. As Sherlock would say, death is boring.

His mobile buzzed.

**St. Barts. Come at once. If convenient. **

This was impossible. There was no way a dead man could be texting him.

It buzzed again.

**If inconvenient, come anyway. **

He was _so_ going.

…

He was three blocks away when a skinny, pale hand shot out and yanked him onto an alley.

Turning, he faced a dead man.

And promptly smacked him on the side of his head with his cane.

Sherlock fell back, rubbing his ear. "What was _that_ for?

"For being a bloody idiot, for making everyone think you were dead, and for-" he took a deep breath "-for leaving me"

Sherlock looked slightly confused, so John hit him with his cane again.

"_Bloody_ idiot. I went to your _funeral_. Do you know what you've been doing to everyone?"

Emotions flickered across Sherlock's face (Anger? Guilt? Pain?) before they fell beneath a mask of steely indifference.

"No matter."

"No bloody _matter_? Sherlock-"

"I had to do something!" The ferocity_pain_ in Sherlock's voice almost frightened him, until two words shattered the bit of whole existence he had left.

"Moriarty's alive."

…

That bloody bastard. Moriarty has been blown up, arrested, and _shot_, and he's still around?

"Alive, and being cared for at a high-security hospital in Switzerland that doesn't ask questions. I can't get at him there."

John starts. Before, Sherlock had fire in his eyes.

Now it's a bloody inferno.

"I can't get him there- but I can everywhere else." There's a ferocity in Sherlock's voice that John hasn't heard before, ever.

His hand has stopped shaking.

Sherlock whirls around to face John. "I am going to _destroy_ him, John. He said that I would burn, and so I will burn him. I am going to destroy his world until there is _nothing_ left for him, until he realizes _just_ who he has crossed."

"Will you help me?"

John doesn't take time to think. The battlefield beckons, and he walks towards it with his head held high and his safety off.

"When do we start?"

…

The next day, John clears out his bank account, packs a few essentials into an overnight bag, and catches a train to the channel.

Sherlock is waiting for him there, and they check into a small hotel, heading for the bathroom.

When they're done, Sherlock has short, blonde hair and blue eyes. He slips into an accent like he was born in Stockholm, and tosses a traveler's backpack over his shoulder.

John has dark brown hair, brown eyes, and they both have new passports.

First stop, France.

…

Maurice LeFontaine.

He carried out several smuggling operations for Moriarty, and had a nasty habit of dropping subordinates into the Seine when they bungled a mission.

His body makes a small _splash_ as it hits the water.

John pockets the small ceramic knife that slashed his jugular, and pulls off his gloves as he goes to find Sherlock, who had been dropping something off at the man's apartment.

When the police break down the door, they'll find a neat typed list (free from fingerprints, of course) of crimes the man can be convicted for, and cases that can be closed.

It will be resting on top of a box containing enough evidence to put half of LaFontaine's operatives behind bars, and rival gangs should pick off the other half within the next few years.

They meet up in their room, and toss their clothes into a garbage bag before changing, dying their hair, and pulling out new passports.

The evidence will be ditched in a small bonfire, and the remains from _that_ dropped in the bottom of a garbage pail twelve kilometers south.

_One down. _

…

Petrov Korovin.

A middle-ranking Mafiya man who had helped Moriarty pull an art heist in Moscow several years ago.

A single shot takes him out, and the rifle is dumped in the Moskva River, along with the mobiles and passports they had been using- all at different locations, of course.

The police will find the box and the list again, and they won't be sure what to make of it.

Nevertheless, they will arrest a sizable chunk of a gang, and convict over half of them.

_Two_.

…

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

…

The names blur together- the ones they've killed, and the ones they've used. John doesn't ask where Sherlock gets the passports, and Sherlock doesn't ask where John gets the weapons.

They're everywhere, taking out a mob boss here and a Mafia Don there, the occasional hit man, and, on one memorable occasion, two assassins at the same time when they're hired to kill each other.

They slip beneath and behind and between Interpol, the United Nations, the CIA (Sherlock is gleeful about that one) and the MI6. In their case files, they're listed only as "unnamed killers" and, occasionally, "unnamed vigilantes".

John chuckles when he reads that. They're not vigilantes, they have a vendetta.

Sherlock wonders aloud if Moriarty has noticed.

….

_Twelve. _

_Thirteen._

_Fourteen._

_Fifteen._

…

They have a list.

It contains the name of everyone who's ever had worked with or for Moriarty.

One by one, day by day, they're crossing the names off.

Sherlock said he would burn Moriarty, and he is.

He is burning his world, his life, and his livelihood.

And John is happy to light the matches.

…

Nineteen.

_Twenty._

_Twenty-one._

_Twenty-two._

…

Occasionally, they see reports of the graffiti all over England- "I believe in Sherlock Holmes".

Neither is quite sure what to make of it, but they both know that they're going to have to go back sometime.

There are two names on the list that they'll find there.

…

_Forty-four._

_Forty-five._

_Forty-six._

_Forty-seven._

…

Monte Carlo this time, and Irene shows up to help. Or unbalance Sherlock, whichever seems more fun at the time.

She is more than happy to lure the casino owner out to where a poison dart (John's started to get creative) finishes the job.

She is also happy to help Sherlock and John win enough to fund their next name. Blackjack's more interesting than hacking bank accounts anyway, Sherlock notes.

She is gone the next morning, and Sherlock mutters something about "_the _woman" before changing into a new person.

John's almost forgotten what colour his hair used to be.

…

_Fifty-eight._

_Fifty-nine._

_Sixty._

_Sixty-one._

…

They run, through continents countries and cities and houses, and they laugh at the people behind them who can't keep up. They run from governments and mobs and lights; they are chasing shadows, and the shadows are running too.

…

_Eighty-four._

_Eighty-five._

_Eighty-six._

_Eighty-seven._

…

They sleep in shifts.

Neither of them knows when they started doing it, but while one sleeps, the other makes diagrams and looks at maps, schematics, and names (Sherlock), or cleans weapons, catalogues funds, and plots escape routes (John). They don't want to be caught off guard, so they watch each other sleep, and they watch the world around them turn.

Neither has had more that six hours of sleep at a time in three years.

And they don't care.

…

_One Hundred twelve. _

_One Hundred thirteen_

_One Hundred fourteen_

One Hundred fifteen

…

Only once does John wonder why he isn't remorseful.

Why the blood that stains his hands doesn't haunt him.

Why he doesn't want to turn himself in.

Then Sherlock startles him out of his reverie by asking what he thinks the best way is to leave the Sydney Opera House in a hurry.

As he walks over to look at the map Sherlock has pulled up, he catches a look at himself in the mirror (the room is a bit cramped).

He has an inferno in his eyes, too.

He _wants_ Moriarty to burn.

…

_One Hundred thirty. _

_One Hundred thirty-one._

_One Hundred thirty-two._

_One Hundred thirty-three._

…

_Berlin._

_Chicago._

_Rome._

_Cape Town._

_Guadalajara._

_Lima._

Hand in hand, they chase the shadows.

…

It's Christmas day, and John is pulling Sherlock out of the Rhine, cursing.

"Bloody idiot! You're lucky you're not dead!"

Sherlock smiles weakly.

"We did get him, didn't we? Pity about the opera house."

John groans.

…

_One hundred fifty. _

…

They're back in London now, and using every tool in their arsenal to keep from being recognized.

They're a cold case; one that Sherlock would even have trouble solving, were he not the perpetrator.

There are two names left.

One is of a drug dealer that Moriarty used to use to move weapons and narcotics into the hands of his operatives.

The other is Moriarty himself.

…

They take the dealer out quickly enough- a British Army Browning L9A1 with silencer does the job quite nicely. Base of the skull, little mess. Sherlock breaks into the flat to add the list and the box, and decides to deviate from the norm with another note.

_You know who's next. _

Reading the note, Detective inspector Lestrade sighs and shakes his head.

"Yes. I guess we do."

…

One hundred fifty-one

…

They find Moriarty on NSY rooftop.

It seems fitting, after all.

John is on the next building over, laser scope rigged and safety off.

And Sherlock- his hair back to normal, a replacement coat, and the same scarf, is stepping out of the staircase into the biting air.

It's windy- gusts that threaten to drag one or both of them over the edge. He stands to face the man that he has been hunting for three years, and looks him in the eyes.

"Fancy seeing you here, Jim- it's not often that two dead men meet."

Moriarty's reply is a wordless snarl and a smattering of red dots on his chest.

Sherlock grins.

"This again? Honestly, I expected it." He texts John.

**Now, please. **

Moriarty starts as one by one, the red dots wink out from Sherlock's chest.

One, two, three.

Then, a dot appears on Moriarty's own chest, mocking him with its unmoving glow.

Moriarty spits out a defiant "You _burned, _Sherlock, and _you will burn again_."

Sherlock looks at the man who tried to light him on fire, really looks, and all he sees is an empty shell.

"No, I won't."

A pause.

"But _you_ will."

One last shot.

Sherlock doesn't have a box, but there is a sheet, and he drops it beside the something that was Moriarty.

And walks away.

…

Anderson is taking pictures, Donavan is running security footage (though there seems to be a missing chunk), and Lestrade is surveying the scene with Mycroft Holmes at his side.

"Do you think," he begins, "that there is a coincidence between John Watson dropping off the face of the earth and this little…unpleasantness?"

"No more," replies Mycroft, "than the fact that there is absolutely nothing that can give us any idea to the identity of the shooter may indicate that someone we believed to have given up a life of crime-solving may have been involved."

There seemed to be nothing more to say, and they both stared off the edge of the building, at the boiling storm clouds that frothed at the edge of the Thames, obscuring what could have been a magnificent sunset.

…

At the press conference the next day, the reporters get down to business.

A woman, her hair in a neat bun and her pen at the ready, enquires as to whether or not this murder had anything to do with the Reichenbach affair three years previous.

Lestrade takes a breath, and replies that no, he doesn't believe that it does.

A second, and then there is a multitude of ringtones as people pull out mobiles to receive a single text message.

**Wrong!**

Lestrade's eyes open in shock.

_Impossible_.

Another reporter questions whether or not the deceased is the real James Moriarty, as the rumours suggest.

Donavan slides in to answer that one, responding with the information that the police are investigating all possible leads, but it is a rumour after all, so there's probably no truth to it.

The mobiles buzz again.

**Wrong!**

After a few more questions (and texts), the press conference concludes, and Lestrade heads for his office and the mound of paperwork that awaits him.

His mobile buzzes.

**You know where to find me.**

**SH**

…

And there it is, folks! I wanted to see a post-Reichenbach that wasn't too angsty, and I was intrigued at the idea of Sherlock and John going all BAMF-y, so my brain churned out this idea. This is my first foray into the genre, so please leave a review to let me know if I should write more. I appreciate all that you have to critique, condemn, and congratulate (maybe) more than words can say. Also, I'm thinking of writing an epilogue, so if you'd like to see that, send a review or a PM my way.

See you soon!


	2. Epilogue

**Okay. Epilogue. Let's do this. **Chasing Shadows

Mrs. Hudson's first reaction upon seeing her boys alive and well was to cry.

Her second was to smack them on the head with her rolling pin for "Making her worry"

And her third was to invite them in for lunch.

As they head towards the kitchen, she keeps up a steady stream of chatter, knowing that neither of the two is in a good position to talk at the moment. She's not blind, and she has a pretty good idea of what they've been up to these past three years.

But she's not going to say anything. If the CIA can't be bothered to figure out what's been going on, she's not going to tell them.

"-never did get 221B rented out again, no one seemed to want it. I did have to clear it out, though; most of your things are in storage in 221C. Don't worry; I kept them out of the wet. Sherlock, you're not getting that dratted skull back until that apartment is _spotless_, I don't care if you need it to think. I'm not your housekeeper. Consider the cleaning your security deposit- you never did get the last one back. Are ham sandwiches fine?"

Not bothering for a response, she ducks through the bead curtain to make said sandwiches, leaving Sherlock and John in the hallway.

John can tell that Sherlock is trying to think of a way to get out of eating. (Three years of living in even-closer-proximity-than-normal will do such a thing.) _That_ has to be nipped in the bud. "Three sandwiches, Sherlock."

"Digestion is boring-"

"But necessary." The you're-going-to-do-as-I-say tone doesn't surface in John's voice very often, but when it does, there's usually good reason for it. "If we've got to leave in a hurry, you collapsing would make that difficult."

On a lesser person, the expression on Sherlock's face would be considered a pout, which John is about to say something about when Mrs. Hudson returns, bearing a tray of sandwiches and a basket of cleaning supplies. She answers the boys' confused looks with another "Not your housekeeper, dear."

They have faced down assassins, mafia dons, and mob bosses, as well as a plethora of henchmen and hit men. But they're not stupid enough to argue with Mrs. Hudson when it's plain she's not going to budge.

Sherlock gets his skull back three days later.

…

Donavan eases the door open just wide enough to admit Lestrade, Anderson, and herself. They make their way up the stairs to 221B quietly, hoping they haven't woken Mrs. Hudson. The only reason that they've come at this time of night is that there's a better chance of _those two_ actually being there, instead of off wandering the streets of London.

They quietly make their way up the stairs, and are at the top of the landing when _something_ catches Donavan across the ankles, sending her sprawling. Lestrade and Anderson are up the stairs in time to be slammed against opposite walls with knives to their throats. In the dim light, they can almost make out the features of John Watson, who wore a pleasant smile in stark contrast to the circumstances.

"Really, so many people have trouble using the bell. You could have at least knocked; it doesn't hurt to be polite, y'know."

Lestrade starts. This isn't the shy, quiet Doctor Watson that he knew- this person would probably have no qualms about killing them here and now. After all, everyone here knows _exactly_ what's been going on, even if they've nothing with which to prove their accusations.

So Lestrade swallows hard and spits out a whispered "Watson, you bloody fool, it's us!"

The change is immediate and almost frightening. The knives vanish, and Doctor Watson is helping Donavan to her feet.

"Sorry about that- the trip wire _was_ Sherlock's idea. You really can't be too careful these days. Cuppa?"

…

Lestrade finds the entire situation to be a bit surreal.

He is sitting in 221B, drinking tea that was prepared by someone who has been missing for three years, and was quite cheerfully holding a knife to his throat not twenty minutes earlier. Said person has just emerged from the kitchen, bearing a plate of biscuits and another pot of tea. He sinks down into his usual chair (Anderson almost sat there before Lestrade gave a warning cough) and takes a drink from his own mug. If Lestrade wasn't deliberately ignoring it, he would have noticed the bulges beneath his jumper that indicated the man was armed to the teeth. Or at least the collarbones.

Donovan cuts to the chase. "Where's the freak?"

Watson raises an eyebrow. The expression speaks volumes- seeming to ask just how stupid she thinks he is with the twitch of a facial muscle. Wisely, she does not pursue the subject.

The officers finish their tea, and leave the flat with even more questions than they had upon entering.

…

Sherlock was asleep, actually- they'd just switched over when Lestrade and company arrived. John spends the rest of the night digging through the internet, uncovering some interesting facts about the disastrous affair three years previous.

-Kitty was dismissed in disgrace, and hasn't worked since.

-A number of NSY higher-ups resigned over the scandal, especially when:

-Several hackers discovered numerous holes in Richard Brooke's identity, casting doubts about whether or not he had ever existed at all.

-The "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" graffiti campaign hit NSY headquarters, No. 10 Downing Street, and _Buckingham Palace_ in the same night.

-Numerous clients of Sherlock's had come forward with their stories about the consulting detective's prowess, too many to be faked.

- And it seems that people had started to believe the Moriarty existed, especially when all of the criminals had started turning up dead. Luckily, any connections drawn between Sherlock's death and the killings were dismissed as conspiracy theories.

As the sun began to tentatively inch over the horizon, John leant back in his chair with a contented sigh.

It was good to be back.

…

Lestrade resisted the urge to slam his head against the nearest wall. Whoever was lying there had evidently pissed off the wrong person, judging by the numerous stab wounds littering their person, but the lack of blood in the area indicated that the victim had been moved. Adding to his headache, there was a distinct lack of footprints or tire tracks in the area that didn't belong to his team, and nary a fingerprint in sight.

It was at times like this that he looked at the number in his phone that he couldn't bring himself to erase. _What the hell?_

814 Barnberry St.

**Male, numerous stab wounds, possibly moved, no tire tracks, footprints, fingerprints. **

**Probably not boring. **

**GL**

…

Sherlock and John are having breakfast when Sherlock's phone buzzes. He glances at the message before swallowing the last of his tea and leaping from his chair. Halfway to the door, his shout of "There's a case!" tells him all that John needs to know.

John grabs his own coat and a few "necessities" before heading out the door behind Sherlock.

Definitely good to be back.

…

Donovan scowls at the grey sky, wishing that they can get the body to the morgue and go back to their nice, warm offices to finish the paperwork. Even _paperwork _is better than standing around in a cold, foggy alley with a corpse that refused to cooperate. It couldn't get any worse even if it started to rain.

"Hello, Donavan. Still seeing Anderson, I see."

Nope, it just got worse.

Turning, she gives the consulting detective a look that would have turned a hardened serial killer into a puddle of terrified goo. It didn't do anything except make her feel better, but that's still something.

"Hello, freak. I could have sworn you were dead."

Nevertheless, she lifts the barrier to allow the two through, Watson nodding cordially as he walks by. She isn't stupid, despite what Holmes might occasionally say. The sooner Holmes gets here, the sooner the case is solved, the sooner they're back in their nice warm offices instead of out her in the cold, foggy, almost-raining gloom.

…

He strides onto the crime scene, Watson hot on his heels, ignoring the whispers that erupt as everyone figures out who he is. He can almost _hear_ the tweets and facebook updates as officers surreptitiously whip out phones, rules be dammed. A dead man has walked in, and any regulations just flew out the window.

Sherlock kneels beside the body as Lestrade looks on. His eyes flicker over the scene, and Lestrade realizes with a start that John is doing his own scan, eyes flicking from the streets to the rooftops, as if he's searching for threats. However, given what those two have been up to, it's not surprising. He supposes that he has underestimated Watson- a mistake he won't make again.

Sherlock rises quickly, and races to the nearby fire escape, shouting at John to follow him. They return moments later with several fibres and a pulley, proving beyond a doubt that the victim was _lowered_ onto the scene, and the killer made their escape over the rooftops. Lestrade barely has time to start asking a question before they are gone, dashing over the London skyline on the trail of a killer.

The DI suppresses a grin as he starts to give orders. Some things never change.

….

It's only when they've cleared the fifth rooftop with a jump that isn't commonly seen outside a parkour video that John realizes how much he's missed this. Their feet pond concrete and tiles as they swerve around chimneys, Sherlock dashing ahead and John watching his back. They did what they did because they had to, but this is what they were meant to do- they were meant to be chasing shadows in and out of the darkness, and they were meant to be dancing the line between here and there and then and now. The smoke-fog-air tastes bitter on his tongue and he laughs at what they've become- two runners who don't know how to _stop_.

…

The reporters descend en masse to 221B in the wake of the news, but find only a landlady who refuses to comment and several government agents who take their "no one who shouldn't go in goes in" orders _very seriously_. After the world has moved on to more scandalous headlines, they move back from Mycroft's "guest cottage" (read: safe house where he can attempt to keep an eye on his brother), and resume their lives.

But some things have changed.

A larger table has taken up residence near the window, where _two_ laptops and an unholy number of files rest, threatening to collapse whenever a door is slammed, but never making good on the promise.

The violin makes as many appearances as usual, but instead of tuneless screeching, the flat will occasionally ring with Hayden, Mozart, Beethoven, and Rimsy-Korsakov. And some Beatles occasionally, if John found a head in the fridge.

Anyone entering the flat with unsavoury purposes is startled to discover that the harmless-looking doctor's anatomy knowledge extends to nerve endings, pressure points, and the simplest ways to fracture bones. Judging by their quick descents to the rubbish bins outside the windows, its clear that he knows some physics as well.

And any police officer that is foolish enough to try to obtain "borrowed" evidence learns very quickly that the flat has _excellent_ security systems.

…

Three years of running, of fire, and of blood do not fade quickly. They still have the occasional nightmare, or traumatize a rookie who hasn't learned the unspoken "don't come at them from behind if you don't want a near-death experience" rule that was made after Anderson grabber Sherlock's arm and got a broken nose for his troubles. They still sleep in shifts, unless they both haven't slept in over seventy-two hours and pass out together on the couch. They still create escape plans upon entering buildings, and they still cannot look at someone they don't like without seeing the quickest way to take them out.

And they still run.

Rooftops and alleyways, overpasses and tunnels, bridges and byways- London is _theirs_, theirs to keep and hold and know like no-one else does. And they know every inch of it, from the floor inlays in Westminster abbey to the rain (and occasionally blood) –splashed back walls of the dockyard warehouses.

Foreign agents and government agencies and a travelling man who only shows up when things get _really_ interesting (and who's blue box Sherlock ignores for sanity's sake)- they know them all, and are known in return. The shadows twist and dance on the wall as the fire flickers and the time passes, until one day, it will be embers and ash. And _they know that_.

But now the flames leap and spark and dance, as if they don't know whether or no they should be illuminating or burning. Two sets of eyes do both as blood and sweat and tears flow into the gutters, not drop unnoticed.

And the shadows dance with them, grey-tongued reminders of the dark that lurks in the borderlands and _stays_ there thanks to those who would come and dance with them, and remind them of their place in the underthebeds and beneaththestairs and justaroundthedarkestcorner of the city- _their_ city. And if the shadows make the flame burn brighter, so be it.

But until Time claims her prize of dust and ash and memory, they will be there, chasing the shadows against the light of the rising moon.

…

Wow. Okay, I'm not really sure what my brain just did there in that last bit. Maybe I need more sleep (not that I'm going to sleep more, but whatever.) Well, thanks for sticking around to real my delusional ramblings as I complete my first multi-chaptered story, couldn't have done it without my beautiful reviewers, alert-ers, and favourite-ers (probably not real words, but what do I care?), and I salute you. Hope you had fun, and feel free to leave a review on the way out. Check out my other stories too, of you want- I'm writing quite a bit of Sherlock right now. Now excuse me while I go ice my fingers. WAAAAY too much typing.

**-InkySpectacles **

**P.S.- a virtual jammy dodger for anyone who noticed the teeny hint of a crossover. I'm writing a longer one too, if you like the idea ;) **


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